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Diary Entry 1981-22 : Allergies

Tag: English 1981 ← Please click here.
Tag: English 1982 ← Please click here.
Tag: English 1983 ← Please click here.
Other English Version ← Please click here.
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#Allergies

The room where I practiced the piano was in a wide chapel decorated with stained glass. The room was a bit scary because the light there was dim and I felt as if ghosts were looming in shadows.
On third day of my piano practice I got an allergy attack. When I’d turn my face just a bit down I would start feeling painful tingles. Whenever I decide to do something, immediately problems like this begin.

When I was in elementary school, for each day at school, I would have to rest one day at home. On rare occasions when I’d go to school for two days in a row, I would have to rest for three days. My physical strength today is the same as then.
In junior high, when I would go to school for three days in a row, I would end up with different hives during the day and during the night, and I couldn’t sleep even at night.
One spiritualist interpreted my symptoms saying, “This is happening because your ancestors’ graves are covered with weeds,” but our ancestors graves should be clean now.

Now this, in spite of all the efforts to make my practicing possible…
When I went to sleep in my room alone I remembered a seat cushion my mum made for me. She’d unsewn a grey serge skirt, and made it into a big square piece of cloth and eight small rectangular pieces. At the corners of the seat cushion she’d embroidered dandelions, violets and a tulip She’d made the tulip in two colours and she used a deep yellow for the central part of the violet flowers. The dandelions had a lovely design, and they looked like fluffy woollen clouds about to float away. At the remaining corner my mum embroidered her own imaginary flower.
Incorporating colours and talent, courage and sweetness in the design, she portrayed my life with a road of flowers in a vivid and deeply emotional way.

She stitched the pieces of cloth together using the lace she crocheted out of a thick red embroidery thread. This was a seat cushion for school use, and it attended many classes in school instead of me.
Sometimes my classmates would complain, “Ms Hara, your seat cushion is always falling down when we move your chair or desk during cleaning. And then somebody always has to pick it up and put it on your chair.”
The classmate living closest to me would wrap in a piece of straw paper the bread and margarine from our school lunch and bring it to me at home.
My seat cushion was like a children’s storybook. The value it represented was “self-respect and dignity”.
As if it spoke to me, “Your body may be weak but you will survive, so be proud of yourself.”

The smell of my mother had reminded me of a heliotrope. She had been very mischievous. She would call Gould by pet names like “Gureguru-chan” or “Guruchichi”, saying it was “cute” and that she was “getting proficient” in giving him nicknames, as if he were her schoolmate.

Nobody could consider my mother vulgar or common. She had had such grace, like the fragrance of wintersweet flower that carried through a paper sliding door of a convent. She’d loved flowers. She’d grown all kinds of flowering plants, from small tulip bulbs that wouldn’t normally bloom to plants with flowers as small as the tip of the pinkie finger. Even after her death, tulips would bloom in our garden all on their own and in the most unexpected places.
They were tulips in their original, small size. Her voice had resembled a duet of a skylark and a nightingale in the early spring. Compare to a fruit, she had been like a creamy, skin pink “peach”, gentle and soft, yet firm of core.

Our mother’s dream had been to raise her children into persons as independent as frankincense. When we, her daughters, learned half a year before her death that our mother was going to die of cancer, we joked gloomily, “She’s just bought her glasses and had her teeth fixed, and now we won’t be able to recover the cost.”

Saying that, “We can make other people happy when we are able to do work around the house,” she taught me how to cook.
On the days when I was not able to go to school due to hypotension of 50-60 mm Hg, she would send me out to do something for her in the evenings when I would finally become able to move. “You have to go out once during the day,” she would say.

My mother had wanted me to go out of the house at least once a day. She’d thought it was important for my mood to keep in touch with the outside world. She hadn’t wanted me to isolate myself in the narrow world of our household.
However, this would put me in uncomfortable situations with my classmates. I could feel their disapproval, “You didn’t come to school today because you were ill, and yet you are not home resting…” The teachers would also frown at me as if saying, “You look well enough…”

“You just don’t feel well enough to go to school during the day. However, when you feel even a bit better, it is good to do some work.”
These were my mother’s words of encouragement when I would get annoyed at the surprised reactions of my classmates and on some occasions my teachers when I would bump into them.


Two bags my mum made for me to carry to the church.
[two photos]

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[PR]
by mhara21 | 2017-11-13 20:18 | 後追い日記81年 | Comments(0)
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